Skhizein
by Await The Morrow
Summary: For Sasuke there is nothing outside his disorder. Inside is contol, the black and white, concrete law and to step outside is to dip your fingertips into mania and chaos. Eating disorders. Part of the Leptos/Orexis universe.


Somewhere in the back of my mind the voice of reason is screaming at me to stop. It tells me to just _please stop_, stop what I'm doing, take a deep breath, calm down and _for gods' sake really think about what you are doing here._

My hands reach for the bathroom light, flicking it on. The bulbs illuminate and the yellow, artificial lighting reflects brightly on the white tiles. Before I can consciously process the thought the door has shut behind me and the lock has been fastened. No one is home but caution has become instinct.

My legs take me to the sink, a small porcelain basin sitting faithfully below my judge – the mirror. The Other Voice in my head is my jury delivering the verdict - you are guilty, it declares. Guilty of eating too much, guilty of thinking about food, guilty of thinking that maybe I really am thin enough. The judge delivers back a harsh sentence of being fat and ruled worthless. And who am I to protest - The evidence proving this was always there after all – my very skin, loose here, portly there, fat everywhere. I deserve this punishment.

The voice of Reason, my defence, is wailing in the background, pounding weaker and weaker against its cage. You don't really want this, it says. This isn't normal. Stop. Stop. Your teeth, your skin, your body – _don't you know you will die?_ And it's true. Every time I do this it becomes harder. My heart beats that much faster, a little bit more blood comes up, my body recovers a little slower. I am playing with fire.

This fact quickly becomes insignificant, irrelevant because I'm already being led away in my handcuffs and it can scream all it likes but words won't remove the guards leading me away from my trial to begin my sentence. And so my feet drag me to the toilet bowl, mere feet away from my judge. I inhale deeply, preparing myself. I know that this will kill me someday.

My knees drop to the ground without prelude, padded by the bathroom mat. It still hurts. Everything hurts these days. I position myself over the white bowl and place my head over the rim. It's clean enough I suppose though I don't really care either way, maybe the sight or smell of toilet matter will help and encourage this process along. I breathe in again as if I'm about to dive underwater and ignore the protesting beats of my heart. This is the block where my neck rests and the fingers now scraping down my throat is the blunt guillotine killing me slowly. This is my drawn out lethal injection.

How can you do this to yourself, they ask me. Why are you doing this to yourself, they demand accusingly, as if I am a willing participant. Don't they know how guilty and worthless I am? Isn't it obvious? I have broken the rules, the law governed by my very own mind. Simple requests, simple boundaries and I couldn't adhere to it. _Four hundred calories_ - that was all it asked. Four hundred calories – I had followed this creed, this commandment for what seemed like a lifetime, day in day out, inhale, exhale. Today I was stupid and selfish and greedy enough to go beyond this_. Weakfailuredisgusting_. In going above I had broken the Law.

The one thing in my life that I had some iota of control over – my intake. How hard could it possibly be to stick to it? In all heart breaking reality I knew the only reason for failure was my own lack of discipline. My mind had even planned out for me exactly what I was going to eat and when and all that I had to do was stick to it, follow a schedule, a routine, a limit. I couldn't even do that and what kind of person does that make me? Worthless, fat, failure.

Three fingers hit _that spot_ on the back of my throat and my whole body heaves, my stomach contorts and liquid, bile and half masticated food violently leaves my mouth, splashing noisily into the water below. It hurts like crazy and my body starts to shake in dissent.

Of course I deserve this. I_ have_ to do this. I hate this and I can hate it all I like and protest to my Mind as much as I want but I cannot intrinsically deny that I deserve this. All bad people deserve their come-uppance and this was mine and considering I was a repeat offender I deserve it all the more.

I know that my Mind, the devil on my shoulder, is working out a plea deal for me, communicating with the Judge and Reason - if you stick to three hundred calories for a week, we can call it even. Immediately this is denied. It tries again, compromising a little more - purge today, fasting tomorrow, three hundred and fifty calories for the rest of the week and a minimum of two hours exercise per day.

As I heave again and bitter, painful bile rakes against my throat, Reason and Judge considers this deal and runs through its calculations. Weight potentially gained today in my disobedience versus the losses proposed by my mind.

It accepts and we've reached a deal and they shake hands and sign the papers. A plan is drawn up in seconds and for the next week I know exactly what I'll be eating and when and _don't you dare step outside that line or else you will be straight back here_.

Stick to these new rules it says, abide by your new probation and you don't have to be back here, behave. Behave and you will be spared your death sentence. Control yourself, control yourself, control yourself, that's all you have to do. Easy right? Just follow the plan. I agree and accept the deal because I don't want to be back here, I hate this. My teeth hurt, my throat is in agony, my knuckles are bleeding from being torn, and my stomach muscles are crying. I've been here for forty five minutes and I'm not nearly finished. There are tears running down my cheeks and broken capillaries around my eyes. My face is red from exertion, i'm breathing heavy and I can't stop shaking. My vision blurrs in and out of focus and I think I might pass out.

And god... I still haven't got everything up yet.


End file.
